


Truckstop Queen

by DumbestBitchhh



Category: Cars (Pixar Movies)
Genre: Celebrity Crush, F/M, sexy cars hehe, they're still cars, why doesn't this ship exist yet?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 13:36:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21271895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DumbestBitchhh/pseuds/DumbestBitchhh
Summary: Before Cars (2006), Mater is tiring of a long drive when he pulls into a truck stop. He couldn't have possibly known the beautiful Sally Carrera would be a waitress there.





	Truckstop Queen

**Author's Note:**

> ok so I'm ignoring some Cars canon here, because I was basing it on the Rachel Sweet song, and so Sally is a CEO ok? Let it slide.
> 
> Writing this for my three month anniversary with my girlfriend, hopefully this doesn't make it our last oops.

The road is dark, and you’re blinking sleep out of your eyes when the rain starts to fall. _Of course,_ you think. _Of course it’s raining._ You don’t regret going on an errand for Doc, of course, but you wish it hadn’t taken so long. You could’ve been tipping tractors right now. Then in the distance you see a speck of light, a tiny truck stop that probably runs on four customers a day. Not sure how much longer you can go, you pull in, hoping a fuel up will help.

The door jingles as you drive in, and the waitress looks up, and _god damn._ She should not be a waitress here. She’s a smooth blue Porsche, shiny and round, the kind of darlin’ you only see in _Auto Illustrated_ or _PlayTruck_, shining her headlights and spread out with her hood popped, not in real life.

Your mouth falls open. “Ya don’t look like ya’d be a waitress here.”

Her eyes fall on you, amused. “You don’t look like our usual customer. You know, we mostly serve a different kind of truck.”

You don’t actually hear what she says. “I mean, y’look like the kinda car that’s on the cover of _Auto Illustrated_.”

She rolls her eyes. “Do you want to fuel up or not?”

You’re still staring. “Uh, yep. Diesel.”

She narrows her eyes. “We mostly have CNG, but I’ll see if there’s any in the back.” She does a neat four point turn, and as she drives away your eyes catch on the tattoo on her rear bumper.

A vision flashes before your eyes: You first saw her on the cover of _Fordes_, long lashes framing her intense eyes. You bought every magazine she was in, and when she showed up in _Auto Illustrated_, you had flipped eagerly to the center spread, where she was driving away from the camera, turning back coyly, showing off--

“Your tattoo!” It bursts out of your mouth, and she stops dead in her tracks. You speak softer. “Yer not just the kinda car-- You _were_\--”

She spins back around into your face. “Don’t.”

Your voice is a whisper. “Sally Carrera?”

Her mouth tightens.

You’re suddenly wide awake. “What’re you doin’ in a place like this? Don’tcha-- don’tcha _own_ this truck stop? The whole _chain_?”

She glances away. “It’s not like-- I just. . . I hate corporate life, okay? Sometimes I need a break.”

You swing your hook. “So you work? For fun?”

She squeezes her eyes shut. “I know, it’s dumb.”

“Naw, whatever makes you happy, Miz Sally.” You’re _still_ staring at her, the way her headlights are polished, the way her cheeks fold into her mouth, the way she delicately touches her wheels to the floor like she’s been told off for scuffing her tires.

Her eyes are wide. “You’re not. . . mad?”

“Why would I be mad?”

“I. . . I don’t know. Nevermind.” She sighs. “Let me go get that diesel.”

You watch her go, still in shock. When she reappears with a can of diesel, you’re in awe all over again. You sip. “This is the best I ever had, Miz Sally.”

She sighs. “You can’t keep calling me that when I don’t even know your name.”

You smile. “Mater. Tow Mater.”

She chokes. “You’re joking.”

“What?”

“Like the plant.”

“My momma liked ‘em.”

“And you’re a tow truck.”

You grin. “So it fits.”

She shakes her head. “You’re certainly a character.”

You drive forward a little, pushing your luck. “Why thank ya plenty, darlin’.”

She glances away, opening her mouth like she wants to say something else, then closes it and begins to polish the floor.

You watch her as you sip your diesel, you can’t _not_, and her eyes keep glancing at you, too, as if. . . but you know a car like her wouldn’t want you in a million years. And that’s okay. At least you got to see her in person. Smell the gasoline on her breath. Hear her make fun of your name.

Fuck. You want more.

The next time her eyes meet yours, she licks her lips. It’s quick, but you notice it. But she’s _Sally Fucking Carrera_, so. You’ve made your move. If anything’s gonna happen, it’ll be on her terms.

“How’s--” she breaks the silence. “How’s the diesel? It’s a little old. No one really drinks it anymore.”

You suck the remnants off your teeth. It’s not that good, a little tinny, a little too sweet. “Delicious, thank ya, darlin’.”

She lowers her eyes. “Do you. . . do you want anything else?”

_You_. “I dunno. What else you got?”

She drives forward suddenly, and your engine nearly leaps out of your hood. If you had a hood to begin with. Her eyes are sharp, wild. “Do you want me?”

You can’t fucking believe-- “Yeah, yes. Yep. Miz Sally. It’d be a ple--”

“Not the fucking CEO. Do you want _me_? The car in front of you? RIght here?”

You want to shout _why the hell does this matter_, but you stop, looking at her, desperate, in front of you. She’s so fucking shiny, and her eyes. . . “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” She’s breathless.

“Mhm,” you manage, because she’s pressed against you, the heat from her engine warming your metal exterior.

Her tongue flicks across your engine, just a little, just enough. “You want me to offer you the full service?”

You’re so glad you left your hood in ‘86. “Yeah, baby, please,”

She’s all over you, her eyes meeting yours as her tongue slides along your pipes, ducking behind your bolts and across your tanks, making you shudder and your engine rev. It’s so fucking unbelievable, it’s Sally Carrera, and she's all over _you,_ an old truck no one looks twice at anymore. She pulls back, panting. “You taste like rust.”

_Don’t stop_, you want to say. You want to push her face back where it was. “Yeah, I’m rusty.”

She smiles in a way you haven’t been smiled at in years. And never by a Porsche. “I like it. It’s so. . . dirty.”

You laugh. “If that’s what yer into--”

But she’s back, like she’s got something to prove, and if you could ever think at all you certainly can’t think now, because it’s all her. She’s working you like she’s done it a million times before, or like she’s never done it at all and wants to learn every part, and your engine gets hotter, hotter--

“Sally,” you gasp, “I’m gonna, I’m gonna--” and your engine turns over, cuts out, as a jolt runs through your body, and she’s kissing you so sweet, sucking on your teeth, the taste of your grease and rust still on her tongue.

She pulls back, sloppily wiping her mouth with her tongue, smiling with heavy eyes. You roll forward, eager to pop her hood, but she stops you. “That’s all for today, Tow-Mater,” she says your name real slow, like she can taste it. “Don’tcha have somewhere to be?”

“I don’t gotta be anywhere, baby.” _Please_.

She laughs. “Go on. I’ll still be here the next time you come by. I have to close up.” She nudges you out, until you realize you’re back on the dark stretch of highway, driving forward. You look back, but the light’s already too far too see. You look forward, blinking the sleep out of your eyes. Maybe it was just a dream.


End file.
